


Roulette

by Oried



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Death Threats, Gang Rape, M/M, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18326906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oried/pseuds/Oried
Summary: Bruce discovers that there are worse things than a quick and violent death on the streets of Gotham.Set during the season 4 episodeThe Fear Reaper.





	Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> Rude comments will be deleted. Read the tags, and do not proceed unless you are certain you will be comfortable with what you may find here.

_“It’s within our rights to do anything we want to you. **Anything**.”_

 

  
Alfred had been right, after all. Only four men, and he couldn’t take them on alone; four men, and they had him pinned on his back, thrown across the wooden table. The legs shook and the wood creaked, and Bruce’s stomach clenched as the ringleader’s fingers left a trail of sickly warmth up the center line of his abdomen, stopping at his collar. He produced a switchblade and made a quick, neat cut that followed the same path up Bruce’s sweater. With his skin now bare, the evidence of his fear was more tangible. Literally. The ringleader spread his sweaty palms wide over Bruce’s heaving chest. “You gotta die, kid,” he explained, “but there ain’t no reason we can’t have a little fun, first.”

They didn’t waste time tying him up, or even unbuttoning his pants; like the sweater, whatever cloth stood between the four men and what they considered to be their rightful kickback from Bruce’s interruption was simply shredded and pushed aside. His pants were sliced neatly up one leg and down the other, and his briefs were ripped at the seam. There was little he could do with one man each pinning his arms, and another holding him down at the shoulders. Strong fingers bit into the flesh around his collarbone, and he tried to focus on the pain.

Bruce understood what was happening, he knew what terrible things cruel men were capable of. This was Gotham, after all, and he’d seen more in a few short years than most could dream up in a lifetime. It was only a matter of time before he encountered someone whose idea of exacting retribution wasn’t quite so cut and dry as all the others. He was prepared to fight, and prepared to lose, if it came to it. He was certain he could compartmentalize whatever he might suffer at the hands of these men.

But when the first brush of fingertips met the sensitive juncture of his thigh and groin, Bruce jerked wildly in their grip, panicked beyond anything he’d imagined himself capable of before. All his resolve fled, every ounce of determination bleeding from him like an open wound. He could hear himself, snarling at the men like a wild animal, and he could hear their laughter underscoring his futile attempts to break free, like the laugh track of a sitcom. It was distantly fascinating, the way everything narrowed down to the rough drag of fingers, cracked and dried and unconcerned with the way they scraped at his tender flesh. Everything else seemed to fade into the background. He could hear it all, but he couldn’t connect with it, couldn’t focus on more than the feeling of being open and exposed and helpless.

Using only one hand to hold his left arm, the man at his side began to stroke himself through the front of his jeans. Bruce caught it from the corner of his eye, and then instantly wished he hadn’t. “I get seconds,” that man insisted breathlessly. His heavy lidded eyes were locked on what the ringleader was doing between Bruce’s legs, and Bruce watched him, equal parts terrified and disbelieving.

Then the man between his legs spit into his own hand, and Bruce’s blood ran cold. “Don’t,” he said, as much a demand as a plea. “You can’t—”

The ringleader reached up and gave him a quick, short backhand. Not enough to cause serious pain, but enough to remind him of his place. “Do you just not learn, kid?” He reached up and wiped more saliva onto his fingers, then slipped them back down between Bruce’s legs. “These are the last moments of your life. I’d try to enjoy ‘em.”

The touch of cold, slippery digits was so much worse than dry and tentative brushes. When the first finger slipped in to the knuckle, Bruce jolted in pain, and the other three clearly hadn’t been prepared for it. In the confusion he managed to wrench one arm free, and he flailed at the most obvious target: the ringleader. His fist connected with the man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. The quick withdrawal of his finger was almost as painful and unpleasant as the insertion had been, but Bruce tried to ignore it. His shoulders were still pinned, and his free arm was quickly subdued once more, but his legs were free, and without a much larger body between them, he was able to kick out and, if not very effectively, defend himself.

“You little shit!” the ringleader screeched at him. He stood back, out of the way of Bruce’s legs, and tried to grab at his booted feet as they swung at his face one after the other. It took him a disappointingly short time to regain control, and Bruce was so exhausted by the time it happened that he hardly had the strength to resist when his legs were spread and the older man’s body pressed between his thighs again.

The finger returned to its previous probing, dryer this time, and the scratch of the rough pads on sensitive, untouched skin was like knives. He wasn’t bleeding, not yet, but if a single digit hurt this much, he knew it couldn’t be long.

“Please,” he wheezed. The effort it took to breathe evenly was nearly as taxing as the attempt to fight. “Please, don’t, I can—” He licked his lips. “I can pay you.”

The ringleader reached past Bruce’s shoulder and picked up a fistful of wrinkled bills. “Money we got, boy. Penguin’s licenses mean business is booming. You think you can top that?” He dropped the money and unzipped his pants to give a few short tugs to his length.

Bruce nodded frantically. “I know I can. Just let me go, I give you my word.”

The laughter that met his promise made his face flush with humiliation. More so than the finger pushing its way into his most intimate places, more than the harsh light bearing down on his naked flesh. Bruce let his head fall back in despair; what did he have, besides money and his word, and what would either mean to men like these? Whatever else they could get from him they were already taking.

A second finger entered him beside the first, and Bruce shrieked. He found drive he didn’t know he still possessed and thrashed in their grip. The man who had been stroking himself was forced to hold Bruce’s left arm with both hands now, and he didn’t seem to appreciate it. He glared down at Bruce, who could only see him from the corner of his eye, and then pressed his crotch to Bruce’s balled up fist. To Bruce’s horror, he began to rock against him.

“Oh, yeah, there we go,” he gasped. “That’s a good boy.” His head fell back and his mouth opened, slack and half-curved in a blissful smile.

“You’re gonna blow before your turn,” another mocked him, but the man ignored his comrade.

It hit him, then, and the truth of it sent a fresh wave of dread racing through him like the first sip of a hot drink; he was going to be raped by these men. They were going to take turns. They were going to hurt him, _kill him_ , and there was _nothing_ he could do to stop it. All his training, all his determination, all his resources—they couldn’t stand up to four men. Just four. What was it Alfred had said earlier that evening? He didn’t want to stand by and watch him get shot.

Shot. As if that were the worst fate he could imagine for poor, young Bruce.

Two fingers and minimum effort to stretch his body enough to make it accessible for a grown man seemed to be all the preparation he’d get; the ringleader pulled back suddenly, only to immediately take himself in hand and line up. The others watched with rapt attention, and Bruce’s breath came so quickly he was certain he would pass out at any moment. He craned his neck to watch, uncertain _why_ he felt like he needed to, but unwilling to look away regardless of how grotesque the urge seemed. There was one more application of spit, and then pain. Blinding, excruciating pain. Bruce’s back arched and his voice gave out on a scream. It was only air, then; air forced from his body as though the cock spearing him had driven it out and taken up every inch of available space. He felt ripped open, cored out and filled with something too thick, too heavy. Like molten rock poured into his soul and left to solidify into an immovable block of agony.

“Christ, he’s tight,” the ringleader ground through clenched teeth.

“What’d you expect?” the one holding Bruce’s shoulders laughed. “Look at him.” To underscore his point, he let go of one shoulder and caressed the side of Bruce’s face with his palm. “All smooth and pretty; bet good money he’s a virgin.” He bent his head and peered down at Bruce, momentarily blocking the light. “Aren’t you?”

“Not—” the ringleader gasped on a thrust, “—anymore.”

Another round of raucous laughter filled the room, and Bruce twisted his head to hide his face in the sleeve of his coat. He could feel the heat of shame flushing down past his neck and spreading out across his chest. Someone palmed at his crotch, but he didn’t want to see who, and so he kept his eyes shut tight. He’d given up fighting, but being fucked wasn’t offering him any reprieve; even lying limp across the table, the ringleader’s hands holding his knees, each thrust sapped him of a little more strength. It had never occurred to him that something like _this_ would exhaust him.

He should have fought harder, he told himself. Ducked when he had aimed a punch. Lunged when he’d feinted. Done something—anything— _everything_ —differently. A low groan was pushed from him when the ringleader bent down and settled some of his weight across Bruce’s abdomen. He continued to piston his hips, but the motions were shorter, quicker, and each one sent a gust of the man’s hot breath across Bruce’s face. He smelled like cheap whiskey and sweat. Now, Bruce supposed, he would too.

Life, Bruce understood long before this, wasn’t a choreographed scene in a movie. Men didn’t last that long, not when they were buried to the root inside something tight and hot. He felt the ringleader give a few heaving, shuddering thrusts, and then he went limp atop Bruce’s chest. He lay there for a minute, gasping in each breath like a drowning man. Then, without any sort of pomp or preamble, he braced a hand against the table and pushed himself upright again. He pulled out of Bruce and stumbled back a step, grinning like a drunk.

Bruce was slack on the table, and his hips ached from the larger body slamming into his over and over. He looked up just in time to see the ringleader switching positions with the man at his left, whose earlier enthusiasm didn’t seem at all dulled by having to wait to take his turn. In what appeared to be one single move, he divested himself of his belt and pushed his pants down around his hips. His cock strained against his loose-fitting, plaid boxers, and he quickly shoved them out of the way to join his pants. Then he was stroking himself, a long, disgusting line of saliva drooling from his open mouth onto his shaft. Bruce shut his eyes and shook his head. “ _Please_ ,” he whispered, knowing how little it was worth.

The ringleader’s come somewhat eased the way for the second man, and wasn’t _that_ a horrifying thought, Bruce reflected with a fresh wave of nausea. The man inside him froze once he’d pushed forward all the way. He simply stood there, his body trembling, eyes shut tight in ecstasy. He panted in little shallow breaths that rocked Bruce and the table beneath him.

After a moment even his comrades seemed perplexed. “Dude, move,” one said.

“Just—just feels so damn _good_ ,” the man responded. “Still so tight and hot. God damn, _so_ hot.”

“How long’s it been since you got laid?”

The chuckle from the man inside him vibrated through Bruce’s legs where they were held against his sides. “Too long,” he laughed. He pulled back and pushed in again, and Bruce let out a cry that he tried to hide in his wool sleeve. For some reason that seemed to cause the other men a great deal of excitement.

There had been an adding machine on the table, along with the stacks of cash and other paraphernalia of their business; what hadn’t fallen during the first round was swept aside easily by the others. Bruce was lying flat across the tabletop now. The man holding his shoulders, inspired by the moment, hauled Bruce back far enough that his head hung over the edge. He was still accessible to the man fucking him, who only had to shuffle forward a step to follow. There were no complaints.

If Bruce thought being raped by thugs was horrifying, he had never considered that they might find more creative ways to do it than simply having their way with whatever they found between his legs. His jaw was cupped in a large hand as his head was forced back, and something blunt, hot, and hard nudged his lips. “Open,” the man behind him directed. “C’mon, kid, open up.” He sounded urgent, nearly breathless. He kept pushing the head of his cock against Bruce’s lips, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. The effort to keep his mouth pressed in a firm, flat line warred with the instinctive need to be present for every second of what was happening between his legs, and Bruce felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He no longer knew which to assign priority.

When fingers closed over his nose and pinched his only remaining airway shut, the decision was made for him. He held out for as long as he could, until his ears were ringing and his head felt like it was floating in hot water, and then he let go and hauled in a breath. In that same instant the full length was plunged down his throat, and Bruce gagged and fought with whatever was left in him to pull away.

“No biting!” the man warned, his gloved fingers hooked over the lower half of Bruce’s jaw by the teeth. “Don’t you fuckin’ bite me, you hear?” He gave a single thrust, hitting the back of Bruce’s throat with a groan. “Yeah,” he sighed. “That’s right, take it. Take it.” He rocked himself back and forth, sliding down Bruce’s throat over and over while he held Bruce’s neck in place. His thumbs pushed against the front of the soft throat, and Bruce realized he was doing it to feel himself; he wanted to feel the way his cock caused Bruce’s muscles to strain and tighten, and made his throat bulge obscenely.

Breathing was now the priority. Bruce focused on that, and only that. Each time the man in his mouth pulled back, he quickly dragged in whatever air he could in the few short seconds before the thick member was plunged back down to the base of his throat again. It became increasingly difficult as the thrusts quickened, and even more so when the cock between his legs began to slam into him in a ruthlessly brutal rhythm that all but shoved him back onto the other man. He felt like a toy; like a worn out, filthy rag, with two dogs fighting over either end.

A choked cry from above was the only warning he received before a gush of hot fluid filled his mouth. Bruce swallowed reflexively—had been, throughout most of the assault—but too much of it refused to cooperate, and wanted to follow the path of gravity, instead. It leaked between the shaft and his lips where they were stretched around it, dripping down his cheeks and running in slick rivulets to drip onto the concrete floor.

“Oh, oh, fuckin’ _hell_ ,” the man above him cursed. He steadied himself with his hands on Bruce’s shoulders, breathing hard and covered in sweat. He let his softening cock slip from Bruce’s mouth and ignored the coughing, sputtering sounds below him as he let out a pleased sigh. “Didn’t think I’d shoot so much of it down his throat. Kid’s got a gift.”

“Shit!” someone exclaimed, only a second before Bruce felt a splash of something hot across his chest and stomach. He lifted his head, ignoring the ache in his neck, and peered down at his body. Somehow, despite what was happening to him even at that moment, he was horrified by the streaks of white across his skin, as though it were somehow worse than being used and violated by strangers. He made a pathetic, disbelieving sound, somewhere between a sob and a shout, and used the hand that no one was holding anymore to wipe frantically at the offending fluid.

“What are you, thirteen?” the ringleader asked the man who had come too soon. “I’m not keepin’ him around ‘til you get hard again.”

“Aw, come on! It’s only ‘cause I had to go last!”

The ringleader shrugged. “Well, now you’re not goin’ at all. And you,” he turned and pointed to the man still rocking between Bruce’s legs, “finish up. I wanna get this done and get rid of him.”

“Almost,” the man gasped. “Almost there. I’m—” he grunted, “—I’m gonna fill him up.”

“Let me watch,” the one on the right demanded. He pushed his way between the others and stood beside the man inside Bruce. His hand was fast at work on his spent cock, as though he could overcome his own refractory period and still get a shot at the prize. “Yeah,” he muttered as he tugged at himself. “Yeah, that’s good. Fuck him hard.”

The ringleader’s hand appeared over Bruce’s face and gripped his jaw between strong fingers. Fingers, Bruce noted with some disgust, that had only recently been inside him. “You’re likin’ this, huh, boy? Like being fucked by real men? I bet you always knew this could happen.” He looked around, appreciating the quiet chuckle that made its round among the others. “I bet, in the back of your mind, you _wanted_ this to happen, didn’t you? Wanted to get fucked out and stuffed with a fat dick. Didn’t count on four, but that’s the way it goes.” He used his thumb to stroke Bruce’s lower lip, smearing some of the come across it and dipping the tip into his mouth to wipe it off on his tongue. “You know…” he mused quietly after a few moments had passed, “maybe we _could_ keep him.”

One of the other men, the one who had taken his turn in Bruce’s throat, looked up. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a lot more complicated than getting off and getting rid of him.”

“Not forever,” the ringleader countered. “Just a little while longer. Penguin’s not gonna care, is he? I bet murder’s a lot more paperwork than kidnapping.”

The thought of being held captive by these men, being used for their demented pleasure over and over, was less appealing than death. Bruce drew in a ragged breath and rolled his head back and forth in a sad parody of refusal. “No,” he ground out. He was surprised by how rough the word sounded, how abused and strained his voice was after such a short time. “Please,” he continued, “no more.”

“He says no more!” the ringleader laughed. He shook Bruce’s head like a dog’s. “You’re done when we say you’re done, hear me? If I want to keep you tied up in the closet for a month and only take you out to blow my load in you, I’ll do it.”

“I still think this kid looks familiar,” the other one muttered.

“Would you let it go?” The ringleader released Bruce’s jaw and moved to join the other two. “You’re really givin’ it to him, ain’t you,” he observed. “Kid’s not gonna be able to walk when you’re done.”

“Doesn’t—doesn’t need to— _ah!_ ”

Bruce shuddered at the sound of the man between his legs reaching his climax. Cold, clammy hands clawed at his thighs, and then everything stilled. For a few seconds he could only feel relief that it was over, and then there was a brief scuffle as that one pulled out, and was quickly shoved aside by the man who had been unable to hold himself back earlier. The new one hastily shoved his way in, having jerked himself back to hardness despite only coming a few minutes earlier, and Bruce couldn’t find the strength to fight it. He lay back on the table, limp and defeated. No one bothered to hold him down anymore.

The ringleader gave the last man a pat on the back. “Who knew you had it in you,” he laughed. “Go on, you’ve earned it.”

This one had plans for Bruce that didn’t include him simply lying back and taking it. He reached forward and grasped Bruce’s hair, yanking his head down at an awkward angle, chin against his chest. Bruce grimaced, and the dried saliva and come irritated his skin. “You like that?” the man demanded. “Huh? Dirty little slut. Gonna use you up. Fill you ‘til it’s running down your thighs.” He grunted and slammed his hips against Bruce’s. “Tell me you like it.” He gave a quick tug to his hair, and Bruce whined in pain. “Say it!”

“I like…” Bruce pulled in a breath that was half-sob and said, “I like it, please, _please_ —” He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth might crack. He’d say anything to make them stop, but he didn’t have to mean it. He didn’t have to like it.

But they didn’t stop. Two fingers were abruptly shoved into his mouth in a mirror of what had been done to him earlier, and Bruce fought back the urge to gag. “Can’t get enough, can you?” the ringleader asked.

It would be the last thing he ever said. There was a moment of utter silence, hanging in the air like the anticipation of a church bell, and then everything was chaos. The ringleader looked down to where the armpit of his jacket was turning a deep, deadly red by the slow creep of his own blood. He went down like a sack, and Bruce never saw him get back up. The others scrambled to run, apart from the man still buried to the hilt inside Bruce. When that didn’t work they tried to fight back, but they were dispatched with two quick shots, and Bruce’s ears felt like someone had boxed them as he wrapped his head in his arms to hide himself. He didn’t know what he was hiding from, but it didn’t matter much anymore. He just wanted to disappear.

The cock inside him, which had gone soft very quickly at the abrupt departure of the owner’s comrades, was withdrawn. Bruce cringed and tried to curl up on the small table.

“You, now, I’m gonna do you slow, eh?” he heard Alfred promise gravely. “Make you feel it proper. Put your insides on your outsides, yeah? How d’you like the sound of that?”

There was a brief struggle, and then a pleading, babbling whine, and someone fell to the floor in a wet-sounding heap. Bruce knew which of them it was. He knew the same way that he knew it was Alfred’s hand that barely touched his arm a short time after, silently urging him to uncurl from his fearful huddle.

“Bruce, oh,” Alfred whispered. “Oh, my boy. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t Alfred’s fault. He had warned him, and Bruce had dismissed his concerns.

“My fault,” Bruce muttered, trying to sit up. His hips and thighs ached, and his ass burned like a searing flame. He didn’t know if that meant something was torn. He didn’t much want to know if it had. His coat had survived the assault intact where the rest of his clothes were a shredded mess, and so he wrapped the black wool around himself and tried to tuck down into its darkness.

“No.” Alfred was shaking his head. “No. Never. This wasn’t your fault, hear me? This—” he turned around once and ran a hand through his hair. The same hand that was still holding the knife he’d used to kill the last of the men; blood smeared into the salt and pepper gray. He was looking at their bodies as though he’d only just arrived and found them that way. “This was their doing, not yours. And mine for not… Christ.”

Bruce could hear the tremor in Alfred’s voice, the edge of hysteria that was threatening to break at any moment. “I should have listened to you,” Bruce offered. He tried to move to the edge of the table to stand, but even the slightest motions sent pain screaming through every nerve. They had been right: he couldn’t walk, and likely wouldn’t for some time.

The thought that Alfred would have to carry him was nearly enough to bring tears back to his eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “I just want to go home.”

“Yes. Right. Of course,” Alfred said. His thoughts seemed to have snagged at the idea of simply returning to their lives as usual. “Right.” He spared one last look at the men he’d killed and let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose it’ll be some time before anyone comes looking for these animals.”

Bruce tried to muster some concern for the potential ramifications of killing men issued licenses by Penguin, but he just couldn’t manage it. He wanted to sleep. Some small part of him hoped that if he did, he would never wake up. That thought frightened him, and he tucked it away where he didn’t have to think about it, or what it might mean.

Alfred’s arms came around him and lifted him, and Bruce made himself as small as he could. “Home,” Alfred said. He paused. “Master Bruce, I—”

“No hospitals,” Bruce said quickly. A bolt of anger tore through him, leaving panic in its wake. He started to struggle in Alfred’s arms. “I won’t go to a hospital.”

For a moment it seemed like Alfred would insist, and Bruce tensed himself, prepared for a fight. He would crawl home if he had to, but he would not be seen in public the way he was. He wouldn’t become the face of Penguin’s campaign to legitimize his chokehold on the people of Gotham by claiming that observing his licenses would have prevented the harsh fate of the city’s favorite son. Somehow, using some twisted logic, he would make it seem as though Bruce had been the victim of consequences brought about by the gangster’s enemies. Maybe even by the GCPD itself. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

But more than anything, he couldn’t let anyone know what those men had done to him. What they had left in him, and _on_ him, and how used and filthy he felt.

Whatever objections he did have, Alfred kept them to himself. He simply nodded, and hefted Bruce in his arms as gently as possible. “It’ll be rough, most of the way back to the car. Just hold tight. Can you do that for me?” he asked as he had once asked Bruce if he could tie his own shoes.

Bruce nodded. He could do that. He’d held on this long, he thought, he could hold on a little longer.


End file.
